


Death of a Kingdom

by MrProphet



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 12:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10697004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrProphet/pseuds/MrProphet





	Death of a Kingdom

The gates of Camelot closed with an almighty crash, sealing the King’s army without. Mordred might have laughed at the irony if he had not been so exhausted.

Morgana swept down the stairs to the courtyard. “What happened?” she demanded. “You went out to sue for peace; how did that end up in pitched battle with your uncle’s forces?”

“They attacked us,” Mordred replied. “A group of Arthur’s knights began crying treachery and charged the flank of my party. I swear that we did nothing but defend ourselves.” He looked down at the blade of his spear, which dripped with blood. “We shall weather the King’s anger if we may and… perhaps later,” he sighed without much conviction.

“And… Gawain?” Morgana asked.

Mordred shook his head sadly. “Dead,” he told her mournfully. “They say that it was Lancelot who struck the last of my brothers down; as he did the rest of my kin.”

“And he lives?” Morgana’s eyes flashed with livid rage, quickly quelled.

“The King did not… pursue his vengeance against Lancelot. Gawain did not fall in vain; they say that your old friend will never rise from his bed again, yet he may live if he is cared for.”

Morgana shook her head furiously. “Such a bloody awful mess,” she snarled.

“Do you… Do you want Arthur dead?” Mordred asked.

“So my brother can join yours?” Morgana asked. “All I want is an end to all this.”

*

Mordred’s weariness grew in him even as walked to his chambers; only the prospect of Brangaine’s smile kept him moving, if even she could muster such an expression in the midst of such chaos.

The air in their chambers was still, however; Mordred was disappointed, but presumed that his wife must be about his aunt’s business or her own work. He stripped off his bloody mail and dropped it on the floor, knowing that he would catch hell for such carelessness when Brangaine returned. He had unbuckled his sword belt and was moving across to the weapon rack when he saw the shape by the window.

The scabbarded sword clattered noisily on the stone floor. Mordred moved slowly, stiffly, as though he were sleepwalking towards the thing that he refused to recognise. He saw the pale hair, the fair skin, the grey eyes; saw the dark green gown that should have been so familiar.

He saw, but would not accept that it could be his wife, his darling, who lay slumped upon the floor beneath the window in a pool of drying blood. He would not accept that those could be her eyes which gazed, sightless and imbecilic, towards the ceiling. Where was their light? Where was their intelligence? Where the fierce spirit she had possessed?

Mordred crouched at Brangaine’s side and laid a hand upon her face. Her skin was cold. The body rolled at his touch, exposing the dagger which still transfixed her heart; a dagger with a slim grip, bound in soft leather, with a pommel in the shape of a silver boar’s head.

He touched the hilt of the dagger with his fingertips and contact with the weapon shocked him back to himself. He looked down and saw that it was his wife’s body which lay before him.

“She betrayed you.”

Mordred turned towards the back of the room.

A slim, black-clad figure emerged from the shadows. “She… shot at Arthur’s knights. Made them think you were turning on them. It was her fault, don’t you see? My son?” Queen Morgause took a step forward and held out her right hand, a hand that was red with blood.

“She…?” Mordred was aghast. “Why would she do that?”

“Revenge,” Morgause hissed. “She wanted revenge.”

“No,” Mordred whispered. “That was never her desire.”

*

Mordred stormed down the stairs to the courtyard and signalled for the herald to summon his knights.

“Mordred!” Morgana called. “What is wrong?”

Mordred turned to his aunt with empty eyes and a face contorted with grief and a bitter, black rage. “It is all gone,” he told her. “All my brothers, dead. My wife, dead. My mother…”

Morgana was horrified. “Brangaine? Morgause? But how…?”

Mordred shook his head. “My mother… murdered Brangaine,” he choked. “She caught her shooting an arrow at Arthur’s knights to precipitate a battle.”

“But why would Brangaine want to start a battle which you could not win?” Morgana demanded. “She loved you, Mordred; you were the world to her.”

“I know,” Mordred replied. “She told me every day, with every word and look and action, and I felt the same for her. She did not shoot the arrow; my mother did, to make me fight and kill my uncle for the deaths of her sons. She saw that Gawain was not with the King and…”

“And Brangaine saw her,” Morgana realised.

“And died for that knowledge,” Mordred finished.

“And Morgause?” Morgana asked, although she did not want her nephew to answer.

“Forgive me, Aunt Morgana,” he said. “I can not live with what I have done.” And with that he wheeled his mount and rode out in fury onto the field of Camlann.


End file.
